“Now, Hermia,” he went on, “Let’s have the motive—there’s always a motive, you know. You can’t really care for this youngster—let alone love him—”
“Oh, as for love—You know, Hilary, I never loved any one but you—” she broke off, almost passionately—“never—before or since.”
“Well then, if in that case you couldn’t stick to me, how are you going to stick to this one when you don’t even love him? You know you never would. And he’s got nothing of his own to speak of, and never will have more when you have estranged him from the only relative he has who can help him.”
“But I needn’t estrange him from anybody. Nothing need ever be known.”
“Let’s turn back,” said Hilary. “We have gone far enough. And now, Hermia, I’ll tell you straight. If you don’t give Percy to understand this very morning that you have changed your mind, and will on no account consent to marry him, I shall put him in possession of all the facts concerning ourselves.”
“You will?” she said. “You will do that?”
She had stopped short, and with eyes burning from her pale face, and breast heaving, she stood defiant, facing him, with a very blast of hate and fury in her look.
“Certainly I will,” he returned sternly, and absolutely undaunted. “I forbid this thing—forbid it utterly.”
“He won’t believe you,” she jeered. “Even if he does, he won’t care, he loves me too well. It’ll make no difference to him.”
“I think it will though. In fact I’m sure it will. There was young Spence. He loved you just as well, but it made a good deal of difference to him.”